Bernard blushed uncomfortably. “You see，” he said， mumbling and with averted eyes， “I’m rather different from most people， I suppose. If one happens to be decanted different…”
“Yes， that’s just it.” The young man nodded. “If one’s different， one’s bound to be lonely. They’re beastly to one. Do you know， they shut me out of absolutely everything？ When the other boys were sent out to spend the night on the mountains–you know， when you have to dream which your sacred animal is–they wouldn’t let me go with the others； they wouldn’t tell me any of the secrets. I did it by myself， though，” he added. “Didn’t eat anything for five days and then went out one night alone into those mountains there.” He pointed.
Patronizingly， Bernard smiled. “And did you dream of anything？” he asked.
The other nodded. “But I mustn’t tell you what.” He was silent for a little； then， in a low voice， “Once，” he went on， “I did something that none of the others did： I stood against a rock in the middle of the day， in summer， with my arms out， like Jesus on the Cross.”
“What on earth for？”
“I wanted to know what it was like being crucified. Hanging there in the sun…”
“But why？”
“Why？ Well…” He hesitated. “Because I felt I ought to. If Jesus could stand it. And then， if one has done something wrong…Besides， I was unhappy； that was another reason.”
“It seems a funny way of curing your unhappiness，” said Bernard. But on second thoughts he decided that there was， after all， some sense in it. Better than taking soma…
“I fainted after a time，” said the young man. “Fell down on my face. Do you see the mark where I cut myself？” He lifted the thick yellow hair from his forehead. The scar showed， pale and puckered， on his right temple.
Bernard looked， and then quickly， with a little shudder， averted his eyes. His conditioning had made him not so much pitiful as profoundly squeamish. The mere suggestion of illness or wounds was to him not only horrifying， but even repulsive and rather disgusting. Like dirt， or deformity， or old age. Hastily he changed the subject.
“I wonder if you’d like to come back to London with us？” he asked， making the first move in a campaign whose strategy he had been secretly elaborating ever since， in the little house， he had reahzed who the “father” of this young savage must be. “Would you like that？”
The young man’s face lit up. “Do you really mean it？”
“Of course； if I can get permission， that is.”
“Linda too？”
“Well…” He hesitated doubtfully. That revolting creature！ No， it was impossible. Unless， unless…It suddenly occurred to Bernard that her very revoltingness might prove an enormous asset. “But of course！” he cried， making up for his first hesitations with an excess of noisy cordiality.
The young man drew a deep breath. “To think it should be coming true–what I’ve dreamt of all my life. Do you remember what Miranda says？”
“Who’s Miranda？”
But the young man had evidently not heard the question. “O wonder！” he was saying； and his eyes shone， his face was brightly flushed. “How many goodly creatures are there here！ How beauteous mankind is！” The flush suddenly deepened； he was thinking of Lenina， of an angel in bottle-green viscose， lustrous with youth and skin food， plump， benevolently smiling. His voice faltered. “O brave new world，” he began， then-suddenly interrupted himself； the blood had left his cheeks； he was as pale as paper.
“Are you married to her？” he asked.
“Am I what？”
“Married. You know–for ever. They say ‘for ever’ in the Indian words； it can’t be broken.”
“Ford， no！” Bernard couldn’t help laughing.
John also laughed， but for another reason–laughed for pure joy.
“O brave new world，” he repeated. “O brave new world that has such people in it. Let’s start at once.”
“You have a most peculiar way of talking sometimes，” said Bernard， staring at the young man in perplexed astonishment. “And， anyhow， hadn’t you better wait till you actually see the new world？”
